Off to a Good Start
by Morganel
Summary: Established Reilly/Curran. Fill for the Feb Prompts on LJ. Reilly's reaction to Tim Curran returning to the colony after being banished. Spoilers: Bylaw & Within. Name: Laura Reilly


She'd had him back in her bed for all of two nights; it's all it had taken for her to suddenly miss the warm body holding her; the warmth had kept Alaska from plaguing her dreams. It had taken a great deal of her military training to keep from shedding tears when Lieutenant Washington had informed them that it was Curran who had set up the trap that killed Foster.

She'd been friends with Foster, not as close as she is with Reynolds or Swan; probably wouldn't have been as close anyway because he'd been a prick sometimes—but she'd been taught not to speak ill of the dead...She'd worried about him too...

The tears she hadn't shed in front of her CO and fellow soldiers she'd shed bitterly in her room later that night—very much feeling out of place in it since she hadn't slept there for a few weeks. It hurt like a knife to the chest that he'd lost himself to that damn card game enough to kill someone over it. He'd lost his objective for getting out; _her_. She's mad at him for leaving her to her own devices, mad at herself for believing that he'd meant it when he'd said he'd found an out and he was going to be done with the game. He'd promised her a ring; a stupid non-committal ring, silver band with his and her initials over lapping. Stupid non-committal yet the most romantic thing he'd described to her. She felt like a woman, which bothered her- since she had worked so hard to work in a male-heavy environment- and yet was reduced to tears by one of the men under her same rank. She hates feeling like a military wife. She's in the military too, in Terra Nova. She's torn and exhausted, ashamed to admit to even herself that she needs the warm body to keep the memories at bay while she sleeps.

She very nearly drops dead when she lays eyes on him not five weeks after he'd been banished. She freezes on the spot, double takes and looks back at the worn man that (she hates to admit) stole her heart. He's looking at her by the glow of the chem lights in the evening darkness. He's being hit with a million different emotions at once but the one wholly hitting him like a wrecking ball is guilt. He sees the subtle bags under her eyes, and it pains him further knowing he'd made her suffer, made her vulnerable. The second thought he has is how beautiful she is in the orange glow of the chem lights, how beautiful she is anyway; what a giant fucking idiot he is for not fighting for her instead of the damn money. It had been haunting every dream he'd had in the Sixer camp to make it up to her and it's all consuming because he knows that he'll make every effort.

"Laura." He starts towards her, but as he tries to close the distance between them she's making it larger, eyes wide and swimming shaking her head mouthing "no" over and over; this can't be real. He can't be back, because she'll fall all over again, and all the goddamn coping she's been doing won't mean a thing. She turns and has every notion to run for the hills—manages a fair distance too—but he catches up to her, grasping her wrist.

She turns into his chest, fists colliding and making audible thumps as she hits him.

"No, no, no, no, no!" She's still shaking her head and tears are streaking her cheeks because she hates that all she wants is for him to hold her. He grabs her other wrist and she yanks her arms to free herself from his hands.

"Let me go, Tim!" Her voice breaks when she says his name and a choked sob escapes her before she bottles everything up. She's flushed under her cocoa complexion, cheeks shining along with her eyes, but she's steeled herself from further outbursts. She sets her mouth into a thin line and sets her jaw.

"Laura—" He starts and drops one of her hands, only to receive her wicked right cross to his jaw. He stumbles back a few steps and looks up to see her seething. At that he half drags her to his old housing unit which he'd been told is where he'll be staying.

They barely make it inside the door before she's pounding her fists into his chest and shoving him.

"You fucking—" She doesn't finish her sentence as she lets out a loud growl on frustration continuing her fisted assault on him.

"You told me you were getting out!" Punch; shove. "You let me get used to sleeping with you!" Punch. "You killed Foster!" Shove. "You lied to me!" Right cross. "You—dammit—fucking—left me alone for twenty-nine days!" She punches again but this time it doesn't reverberate through his very being. A sob escapes her and she moves away from him and leans her forehead and hands against the cool wall, steadying her breath. He moves towards her and places a hand on her upper back. Even through her armour she feels it and reacts turning on him again and shoving him hard. He remains a wall before her, not looming, but a force to be reckoned with. The look in her eyes is pleading.

"Don't." The tone has more than enough bite, but inside she's terrified. He steps closer and she brings a hand to his chest to stop him. She shakes her head, more for herself than anything. She knows she'll give in if he pushes, knows she'll fall into his arms. He's the biggest idiot she knows but she honestly—and hates herself a little for it right now—loves the scruffy man in front of her. She feels safe with him, and knows she hates a lot about what she does and doesn't in relation to him, but she hates that she can say that even though he had their friend killed.

"I'm so sorry, Laura." He says voice rough with emotion, his eyes raw with sentiment. She's sees it, and feels any resolve tumbling away. She shoves past him, contradicting herself in her hope that he stops her. He does. Stops her before she can make it to the door, takes her face in his hands and kisses her soundly. Her whimper is the first thing he hears before she responds to him. She knows she will always respond to him.

Her armour covered arms circle his neck and pull him down. He pulls back up bringing her to his height hands gone around her waist to lift her up. She digs her nails into his scalp conveying her frustrations; she bites at his bottom lip. He's the opposite, kisses her with just as much passion but it's not anger, it's all kinds of apologies. Apologizing with his actions—soothing, yet firm; reassuring; ever present—as he presses her against the wall. She has her legs wrapped around his waist as he divests her of her armoured jacket. It's when she stops biting and when her grip on his scalp loosens. There's desperation in how she moves; half clinging to him as his hands slide up and under her shirt as he walks them—blindly; still locked in an embrace—to what had previously been his bedroom. If he weren't focused on her he'd be shocked that the place looked untouched; the bed still unmade from when she'd woken up alone. A gasp—moan—escapes her when they fall onto the bed. She doesn't allow him to linger any longer than strictly necessary when he sits them both up and pulls her top off and then she his. She brings him back to her lips as if he were her rebreather in the middle of Chicago.

His own vocalizations reverberate into her through their locked mouths. Laura's breath hitches in her chest when his hands find the clasp of her bra and undoes it. She removes her hands from his hair and lowers them slowly. Their gazes lock and for a moment they don't move at all. She's the first to look down, can't bear the raw emotion in his eyes that is undoubtedly in hers as well. He presses a soft kiss to her mouth and she sighs; immediately deepening it with a slant of her lips against his. The bra slips off her arms and she brings them around his neck again deepening the kiss even more. They fall back onto the sheets; he over her, a perfect fit. Hips grind together and she finds herself moaning at the contact. Pants find the growing pile of clothing on the floor and soon after so do undergarments.

Her head lolls back at his first thrust, and she hitches a leg over his hip and moans at the exquisite change in angle. He sets a rhythm he knows her to love—her moans and whimpers don't prove him wrong. Her nails dig into his back as she nears completion; a hum starts at the back of her throat and rises in volume as he pushes her over the edge with a final thrust. With her cry, her walls clamp down around him and he comes undone right after her. His forehead rests on her shoulder his stumble scratching pleasantly against her skin as they catch their breath. She rolls over with her back to him, pulling the sheets over her body after he moves out of her and lies down beside her. He reaches out and caresses her arm. She shrugs him off. He props himself up on one elbow and leans over and puts his index and middle finger under her chin making her look at him. She moves her face away from his hand but keeps looking at him.

"Don't hold me if you are planning to leave." The hurt in her tone bleeds through like arterial spatter. He looks away and she starts rolling away from him; off the bed. He holds her fast, wraps an arm around her waist and holds her back against his chest. He feels her melt; her entire body relaxes completely.

"Laura, for three years I've been missing out on waking up with you. I've neglected you and I'm sorry. If anything, not being able to be here made me understand that. My idiocy made me understand that. I'm not going anywhere. You don't owe me anything, but if you let me, I promise to make this up to you." As he speaks a salty drop snakes down her cheek. She doesn't speak, she just nods and he holds her a little closer. She falls asleep in his arms again. Prays to all the heavenly deities that this doesn't go south again. If she's honest with herself, she wouldn't be able to live it down easily if it did.

She wakes up with a start, gasping; vague images of blood stained snow burned into her eyelids. She feels the absence of her bed mate like she's missing a lung. Just as realization hits her that he's not there, he's walking in the door and shutting it behind him. He sees her expression in the semi darkness. He crosses over to the bed and pulls her into an embrace—one she more than welcomes—and buries her face in the crook of his neck.

"I didn't think you'd wake up. I was only gone for a few minutes." They settle back under the covers; he's now clad in boxers.

"S'okay." She mumbles, sleep already starting to overtake her again from his body heat. She feels him pick up her right hand and slip something onto her ring finger. She sees a shimmer through half lidded eyes and smiles. It's the stupid non-committal ring he'd promised her ages ago.

"Where'd you get it?" She asks, for once trusting his notions.

"Boylan had it. He and Mrs. Tate were good friends and he gave it back to me as a thank you."

"You're off to a good start." She smiles a little and closes her eyes again, slipping into a nice doze. She'd always been able to do so with him—which would trouble her thoughts any other time; but for the time being she's content.

They're off to a good start.


End file.
